Serial Intent

by Steve Bradshaw

  “Okay. I got your input. If you two got nothing to do, I could—” He turned to the swivel chair spinning and door easing closed. Staring at the swinging door blinds his thoughts moved back to Aaron Wolfe—his top homicide detective. Landers knew the city ate up and spit out the good ones. Somehow Wolfe had survived.

  Less than five-hundred homicides in Chicago was considered a good year. Crowley was right; the good guys were losing the war in all the major cities. Seemed like more and more of the battles were won by armed citizens desperate to protect themselves. The system no longer kept them safe enough. Something broke.

  Another hour passed before the knuckle-rap jerked Landers eyes from his pile to the door. The rangy man with the bushy mustache, heavy overcoat, and gold badge swinging from his neck walked in without a word. The unshaven, rugged face and thick brown hair hung over Lander’s desk with an empty stare. Wolfe stood there like a lion looking for raw meat.

  “Have a seat,” Landers ordered. He could read Wolfe’s face. He carried the unbridled contempt in his dark eyes. But this time that was missing. This time Landers saw something new—uncertainty. If Wolfe was confused, it meant he would be talking even less than usual.

  Wolfe did not allow distractions to get in the way of his investigations, especially the premature and speculative banter with authority figures. Landers knew the routine. For the next twenty-four hours Wolfe would digest his crime scene, consider the physical and circumstantial evidence, and weigh the truths and lies. Landers usually gave him plenty of room, but this time had to be different. This time the kill was not a routine homicide. This time Landers felt the kill could have far reaching implications.

  “This one we’re talking about,” Landers said in his official voice. He pointed to the swivel chair in front of his messy desk.

  Wolfe sat. His .45 long barrel gun pushed up his coat and his knees touched the desk overhang. “I don’t have much to say,” he huffed as he pushed his gun down and scanned the room like he was looking for something to shoot.

  Landers flashed a smile and his eyes got serious on the battle-scarred face beneath salt-and-pepper hair. “Last time I checked, you worked for me Detective Wolfe.” Landers sipped his coffee and set his cup down with a deliberate thud. “Tell me what you have.”

  “Not much more than you already got from your eyes at the crime scene and office scuttlebutt.” Wolfe looked at his wrist even though he didn’t own a watch anymore. He never replaced the one that stopped a bullet.

  “You haven’t had a watch for three years, Wolfe. I’m not doing this. You’re gonna talk to me.” The commander’s eyes sharpened as he leaned back in his chair and made a triangle with his hands, the top point touching his nose.

  “Not much new here. We have a known felon beating the goddamn system and returning to the scene of the crime six years later. Scumbag Ramsey killed Fetter’s husband and raped her. I assume he wanted to violate her once again and kill her this time. Guess we’ll never know.”

  “Keep going,” Landers pushed.

  “Eric Ramsey was shot between the eyes—back of his head blown off.”

  “Mrs. Fetter had a gun, didn’t she?” Landers asked.

  “She did. A Glock 9MM,” Wolfe said as he looked away avoiding dialogue.

  “Had it been fired?”

  “Yes, but missed the target.”

  “Then who shot Eric Ramsey, Wolfe?”

  “That’s what I need to figure out.” He turned back to Landers with eyes burning. “Our sniper’s back. Ramsey was hit with a lot more than a 9MM hollow-point.”

  “Does that explain a face shot while between Mrs. Fetter’s legs?”

  “It could. CSI has bullet fragments. Could be a match to the .50 Barrett. They’re working on trajectory analysis and blood spatter. There was an open window. CSI will have more for me tomorrow.”

  “We have enough of the bullet to—”

  “—connect with the others? Yes.”

  Wolfe looked down at his gun. You don’t need to know now that Ramsey was not between Lindsey Fetter’s legs when he got shot. I don’t even know what she was doing when Ramsey was executed—I sure as hell don’t need another thought process screwing up mine.

  But why did she deny the rape kit? And why did she lie about using the gun—her bullet missed by a few feet? All she kept saying was that she was in fear for her life. Lindsey Fetter shot an intruder in her bedroom. She had acted well within her rights. Seemed over rehearsed.

  “The Glock, does it belong to Fetter?” Commander Landers asked.

  “She says it’s hers. We’re looking into it. After being brutalized, watching her husband die, and living alone in fear for six years, I expect it to be her gun.”

  “Where’d she keep it?” Landers asked. Wolfe had the same suspicions.

  “Under her pillow, loaded, she said.” He eyed the pot. A diversion about now would be good. Their talk had gone way too long. “You mind if I get a coffee?”

  “You don’t drink coffee, remember?”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right.” Damn. I gotta do better than that.

  “Did Mrs. Fetter know Eric Ramsey got out on parole last week?”

  “She got the courtesy call from the prosecutor’s office—Hello, Mrs. Fetter. Your convicted husband killer and rapist paid his debt to society in just six years. Isn’t that wonderful? Eric Ramsey is a new man. Oh yeah, he is also a free man capable of coming to see you. This call is just another service provided by your Chicago area justice system. Have a nice life.”

  Landers stared at Wolfe, his ire understandable. Regardless, the CPD had a job to do. Landers got all he was going to get from Wolfe, for now.

  “Find the shooter, Wolfe. When you do, you may solve the other sniper cold cases. And find out how Mrs. Fetter fits into all this. Something stinks.”

  Wolfe got up and headed to the door reading a new text on his cell. It was from Lindsey Fetter. She had his personal number. The message was short—“WE NEED TO TALK.”

  Three

  “We’ve heard enough of the legal mumbo jumbo—due process, double jeopardy, search and seizure, and the exclusionary rule—the end results are the same too damn often. Victims get screwed.” Robert Mason pulled off his wire glasses and studied the scratches he had rubbed a dozen times a day for the last three years. “This is all about serial intent.”

  It was trying to snow. The two sat on newspapers on a cold park bench in Lincoln Park looking at an empty lake across an empty Foster Avenue Beach. Charlie Dunn grew up in the cold—Michigan, the Dakotas, and Illinois. He and Beth preferred cold. Robert Mason came from the south—Texas—but he had lived in Chicago forty-two years, his Susan thirty. He just liked being outdoors. Now the two men were alone. For the last two years they met on the same park bench at the same time every day, but this time was more important.

  “I hear what you’re saying,” Dunn said. “But I’m not comfortable yet.” He relit his old cigar and puffed. His worn leather gloves clung to the fat wet stub he’d been working on since they sat down. The diversion seemed to help Dunn’s nerves. They both had stayed up later than usual the night before—it was time to talk about it.

  “How long’s it been,” Mason asked.

  “Too damn long,” Dunn shot back. “I’m starting to forget, Robert.” He puffed more. “I guess I can’t remember much of anything anymore. I think I’m finally losing it.”

  “You’re not old. You’re still in your sixties. Hell, we both workout, eat right, and take our vitamins. I read somewhere that sixty-five was the new fifty. It’s not your age, Charlie. You’re doing what I do. You’re trying to forget the bad.” Mason rubbed his eyes and slid on his scratched glasses. “It hurts, that’s all.”

  “Been ten years,” Dunn said. “I miss them. It’s killing me inside a little every day.”

  “I know. It’s a terrible thing.”

  “Why didn’t they kill me that night too? I hate this.”

  “They tried,” Mason said.


  “They made me watch. My Billy tried to help. It was awful. I thought Billy had him, but then the other guy came from behind. He grabbed Billy and rammed his head into the wall. I don’t know how many times. Billy was out cold the first time. Then all the blood. He was only fourteen. Why did they kill him? I tried to get loose. The ropes were too tight.”

  Dunn dropped his head and rubbed his eyes like he had just rolled out of bed. “They raped Beth in front of me.” Dunn chewed harder on his cigar. His eyes found the frozen lake. “I didn’t come out of my coma for six months. The attorneys kept saying Beth fell down the stairs trying to escape. Said that’s what killed her. I don’t know how those people came up with that. After the trial my memory came back. I saw them both violate and beat her to death. I saw them throw her down those stairs. How did those detectives and CSI people get it all wrong? Made it look like it was a damn accident, not a brutal act by two monsters. They never charged them for her death, just rape and my son’s death. Their high-priced lawyers played all the games. What does someone have to do to get the electric chair?”

  “They never got the electric chair in this state,” Mason muttered. “Used to be lethal injection. They abolished the death penalty in Illinois in ’99. Don’t do this to yourself.”

  “It would have been better for me to die that night, Robert.”

  Now Mason stared at the empty frozen lake. He wished he had died too, but it didn’t happen that way. “It all should have been over when they caught the monsters.”

  “There’s no justice anymore. Victims get screwed everyday by the system.”

  “I read it in the newspaper, October 21st, 2006. I remember the headlines—Solid Evidence on Double Homicide in Elmwood Park. Said the prosecutor had everything—blood, DNA, fingerprints, fibers from clothing, and one of the victims survived—you! They had an eyewitness. The bastards ate your food, used your bathroom, and tracked blood everywhere leaving their shoe prints. It was a done deal. They caught them on the next day.”

  “None of it mattered in the end,” Dunn said flicking his cigar ash.

  “Well, the good news is one got killed before the arraignment—stabbed in a holding cell. He got it the old fashioned way, a knife in the gut. I remember the picture of the guy in the newspaper. He looked evil. Those eyes were cold and empty. Why don’t people see these killers? They listed the guy’s felonies in the paper. He had fifteen years of charges, jail time, and probation. The guy did it all: armed robbery, burglary, rape, and assault with a deadly weapon. Those are just the ones I remember. This is what I’m saying—serial intent.”

  “Yeah. Intentions are there all the time. But I saw it different,” Dunn said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “For me it was bad news. That guy dying left Pender to face the charges alone. The defense attorneys used his partner’s corpse to weave their lies to get Pender the minimum.”

  “I remember. They made the dead guy out to be the bad guy. Pender was the innocent and unwilling participant. He was afraid to go against his partner for fear of his life.”

  “I watched Pender kill my son and attack my wife. I watched him laugh after they threw her down the stairs. They smiled when they came to finish me off.”

  “The prosecutor said the physical evidence confirmed Pender had raped and killed your wife, not the other guy.” Mason knew the story well, but now he wanted Dunn to work through his pent-up emotions. Mason had important business to discuss.

  “It didn’t matter,” Dunn said. “Took four years to get to trial. They threw out most of the physical evidence because of improper procedure. They claimed the other guy was the killer. They sold Pender as being dragged into the whole thing. The poor misunderstood guy was once again in the wrong place at the wrong time. He needed a break.”

  Mason shook his head in disgust. “Do these defense attorneys have any principles? Is it all about the money and getting someone off regardless of guilt?”

  “The prosecutor said my testimony did not matter because I had been in a coma a long time. They said the defense would argue I had lost touch with reality. They would nullify my emotion-charged testimony claiming it had been invented by my brain under duress. They had psychiatrists ready to say—because the dead bastard was not around to pay for the crime I would do anything to get Pender convicted.”

  “The prosecutor’s hands were tied because a lot of the physical evidence got thrown out—the exclusionary rule.” Mason muttered.

  “Somehow the CPD violated Pender’s constitutional rights,” Dunn said. “They explained it to me, but I never understood the ruling. I truly believe bullshit legal maneuvers stole justice.” Dunn lit a new cigar and puffed off a half-inch.

  “What about my son’s constitutional rights to not be killed in our home? What about Beth’s constitutional rights not to be violated, beaten, and thrown down our stairs?”

  Mason gave him some time to slow his heart rate and breathing. “The prosecution’s case turned into nothing more than hearsay,” Mason said. “The legal system failed again. It took away the only eyewitness—you—and the most damning physical evidence. This is not how it’s supposed to be. Your horrific life experience is another American tragedy. Convicting Pender should have been a slam-dunk.”

  “I thought the ‘plea bargain’ was a good thing. The prosecutor threatened to go to trial for murder one—life in prison, no chance for parole. The defense agreed to a lesser charge to avoid the trial. I thought we won, but we lost. The plea bargain was murder without intent to cause bodily harm or death. There was no rape charge. Still, Pender was supposed to go to jail forty years without chance for parole. I said do the deal. But it changed after all that.”

  “They found evidence of rape later,” Mason said. “Wasn’t it an oversight, a mistake? They could have gone back after Pender with it.”

  “They found it three months after sentencing,” Dunn mumbled.

  “Found what exactly?” Mason asked.

  “Pender’s semen—his DNA. It was recovered from my wife.”

  “The one piece of evidence handled according to proper procedure was misplaced?”

  “It proved Pender lied about everything. He was not watching. He was an active and willing participant.”

  “Misplacing the evidence was a prosecutorial error,” Mason said.

  “Couldn’t do anything with it. They call it ‘double jeopardy’. Pender could not be tried twice. He was already convicted.” Dunn tossed his new cigar into the melting snow. “Turned out the plea bargain worked against my family, too.”

  Mason cleared his throat and sat up straight for the first time all morning. “Charlie, we need to talk about last night.”

  Dunn felt his pockets for another cigar. “I don’t want to talk about last night. I’m having second thoughts. We need to go back to the group.”

  “‘Crime Victims Together’ did not help us. I got worse. It drained me emotionally. I felt even more helpless.”

  “It’s a process we gotta give time. Those people mean well. They help with law reform, strengthen sentencing, and they really try to protect the rights of victims and survivors. Nobody’s gonna make us feel better, Robert. It’s what we’re gonna carry the rest of our lives.”

  Mason slid his hands deep into his coat pockets and leaned back on the cold park bench. “I read this year there are more than five-million criminals out of jail early. They’re on probation or parole. In Chicago ninety percent of the killers are people with criminal records.”

  “Ninety percent?” Dunn gasped. “That proves serial intent is real.”

  “There were more than five-hundred people killed in Chicago this year. I’m no expert, but it sure seems like nothing’s working right around here.”

  “Things are getting worse.”

  “Politicians haven’t fixed much for decades. Every day I read about terrible homicides, and I watch convicted killers get pitiful sentences—ten to twenty years for killing someone. Then they get out early. It�
�s like no one’s watchin’ so let’s let ’em out.”

  “They are animals—predators. Many can’t be rehabilitated. They will kill over and over.”

  “A city crawling with predators, they’re getting away with murder,” Mason said. “I guess their constitutional rights are more important than ours. The legal system seems to allow blatant manipulation. Solid physical evidence gets thrown out every day because of one legal trick or another—the hell with what it proves! Eyewitnesses disappear—who cares. When they do show up, their testimony is minimized. They are nervous but made to look like fools.”

  “It’s a miracle when a killer actually gets stopped.” Dunn huffed.

  “And all this crap costs taxpayers millions a day.”

  “Damn mess,” Dunn muttered.

  “It’s getting worse, Charlie. Don’t forget I lost my wife, too. The legal system let me down, too. I’m not looking for revenge. I’m waiting for Whitten to get out. I’m gonna have justice. But now I feel like I gotta do something.”

  Charlie walked into the snow and picked up his discarded cigar. He slid it into his coat pocket and returned to the park bench. The white morning sky started to spit ice crystals. The forecast said possible snow. “I can’t believe I tossed a perfectly good Vintage cigar,” he mumbled as he avoided the topic.

  Mason waited for Dunn to settle back into his warm spot on the bench and relight his cigar. “You know who’s getting out this weekend, Charlie?”

  Dunn jerked his shoulders back. Nothing more had to be said. “Are you sure?”

  Mason nodded. “James Harvey Pender is getting out on parole after serving six years of his pitiful thirteen year sentence for killing your son and your wife. Is this the kind of justice we gotta accept? Society has dropped the ball, Charlie. You know I’m right.”

  Dunn turned back to the frozen lake puffing on his Vintage cigar. A gust swept through the empty park flapping their coats. Another veil of light sleet entered from the northeast.

  “I’m ready to talk about last night,” Dunn growled.